


Side Quests

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Quest Series, Dragon Quest XI
Genre: Erik Has Feelings, Erik Suffers 2019, Fluff, Fun, M/M, Makeover, Mutual Pining, Presents, Scenes That Didn't Have Anywhere Else To Go, Twenty Twenty SufferVision, Two Thousand Suffer Teen, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, probably the last time I can use that tag before
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: A collection of scenes and side stories that don't quite fit into Walk Beside Me or my other works. The rating may change as more scenes get added, but expect this to remain non-smutty.
Relationships: Camus | Erik/Hero | Luminary (Dragon Quest XI)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	Side Quests

**Author's Note:**

> The other day, I realized that I had a couple of standalone scenes that I really liked and which I'd always meant to include in one work or another, but which I'd unfortunately written past in my existing WIPs. So why not collect them all in one place?
> 
> This first scene is a cut moment from The Gambler's Fallacy, so you can assume it's canon in the Flutie!verse :)

"You want me to wear… _this?"_

Terran shrugs sheepishly. "Yes?"

Your nose wrinkles. "There's an awful lot of jingly bits."

"Not really."

You hold up the silk-swaddled turban, which has a chain of Gallopolitan coins dangling over the ear, and give it a little shake. To your surprise, however, the coins don't make any noise.

"See? They're just for decoration," Terran explains. 

"Hmm." As you sift through the heap of fabric—there really is an inordinate amount of linen in this _sirwal—_ your brow furrows. "Where's the rest of it?"

Terran won't quite meet your eye. "Should all be there."

You rifle through it again. "But I don't see a shirt."

Terran's cheeks color. "There—ah—isn't any. I thought—since you're always complaining of the heat…" He gulps. "But there's a breastplate."

"Seriously?" You give Terran a sour look. "A breastplate? Over bare skin? The chafing alone—"

"Look," he reaches out to take the outfit back, "If you don't like it, you don't have to wear it."

You lean out of his reach. Terran made this for you. Not only that, he went out of his way to make this for you— _way_ out of his way. He sailed to a foreign shore; he beat up an entire band of thugs to get the recipe. All to make this.

_For you._

It's the first time in forever that anybody who wasn't related to you made you, well, _anything_. You don't care if it's slime shit in a paper bag; you're _never_ giving this back.

You offer your best long-suffering sigh, to cover up how deeply you've been affected by Terran's gesture. "I—I'll try it on, I guess."

He nods. Across the campfire, Veronica snorts into her mug of tea.

You slip into the tent. With one last roll of your eyes, you shuck your tunic and breeches and slip on the _sirwal._

The linen slides against your skin and—okay, actually, this is kind of nice. A little… _roomy,_ maybe, but it's much cooler and fresher than your woolen breeches, that's for sure. You spin, testing it; happily, the linen around your legs barely whispers in the dark. And despite the excess of fabric, your movement isn't impeded in the slightest. If anything, there's even _more_ give.

"Huh," you say, mouth twitching appreciatively.

But there's still that breastplate to contend with. With a sigh, you pick it up.

Oh, for fuck's sake, there are _spaulders._ Actual, for real, _spaulders._ You hadn't noticed _those_ before.

This whole outfit is, as Veronica would say, _ridiculous_.

Still, you shrug on the armor, for Terran's sake.

The skimpy swath of metal really earns its name, offering protection around the breast and nowhere else. But the straps are easy to manage on your own, at least, and there's a fair bit of fleece lining to prevent the rub of metal on skin. You swing your arms, twist from side to side. The metal doesn't really restrict your freedom of movement, either. That's good.

Also, you note distractedly, the plate covers up that ugly purple scar right over your heart.

You pull on the rest of the outfit: the boots, bracelets and cross-braced sleeve garters. There's enough accoutrements that you feel like a kept concubine, primped and pruned for beauty. Then you wrap the stole around your neck. You can't possibly be stealthy in all this nonsense, you think as you exit the tent, but incredibly, you are—your step is somehow even more silent than before.

"Well?" You purse your lips. "What do you think?"

Terran, sitting on a crate sharpening his greatsword, falls still at your approach. Slowly, the whetstone tumbles from his grasp.

"Goodness, Erik," squeals Serena, clapping her book shut. "You look ever so dashing! Like some sort of desert prince."

Sylvando grins. "I'll say, honey. Absolutely—" his eyes slide slyly toward Terran, "— _ravishing."_

"You think?" You frown down at yourself. "I feel kind of ridiculous."

"Not at all," says Jade. "It suits you."

Rab hums approvingly. Even Veronica nods. "It's a far sight—and _smell_ —better than your usual rags," she offers.

Resisting the urge to sniff your armpit, you turn toward Terran, who still hasn't spoken. "Well, Terran? What do you think? Does it look like the recipe said it would?" You spin, so he can see the outfit from all angles.

"Blugh," he offers.

You frown. "What was that?"

He clears his throat, as Sylvando and Veronica snicker. "I—I mean. Uh. Yes. It suits you. Um. The recipe. Suits the recipe. You suit the recipe."

The corner of your mouth curls upward. "I suit the recipe?"

"'S what I said. Whatever. Shuddup." Even across the dark campsite, you can see Terran's face is roughly the color of Veronica's hat.

A delicious shiver runs up your spine. You're no expert in love, or even flirtation, but also, you're not stupid. You know that your body—no, _you—_ had that effect on Terran.

And you want to do it again.

"Thanks for the new togs," you say, chest swelling with pride. "Think I'll keep 'em." 

"Wan' me make a shirt?" Terran mumbles at the fire.

Your smirk turns wolfish. "Nah. I'm good." 


End file.
